Ice Cold Kill Read Online Free PDF

ever doubt me?” shrug. “Moments ago. The bitch just responded. She thinks I’m this Bennett-Smith. That was a nice touch, by the way. Chatoulah. How did you know what he called her?”
    Asher slid on bifocals with curved earpieces. They made him look academic, he knew, and he was self-conscious about it. The cardigan and the neatly trimmed beard didn’t help. “I used to call her that, as well. I think Colin heard it from me first.”
    “What if the bitch—”
    “Could you do me the kindness not to refer to her as that?”
    The hacker looked up. Seated as the hacker was, the overhead lights glinted off Asher’s round glasses, obscuring his eyes.
    “Yes, sir. I was going to ask, what if she tries to contact Bennett-Smith, to confirm their appointment in New York?”
    “Another team killed him, two hours ago.”
    “Ah. Good.” The hacker liked that the boss saw all the angles, accounted for everything. “Can we trust this American Secret Service agent?”
    “Halliday? Yes. He is motivated by a perfect cocktail of hatred and greed. That makes him predictable.”
    “Then the only question is: will Gibron go to New York on Wednesday?”
    Asher wondered the same thing. “Absolutely,” he replied.
    They were interrupted by a pounding on the door. The hacker almost toppled out of his chair in shock.
    “Asher!” A baritone voice boomed in Hebrew. “Get your ass out here!”
    Only one man on earth ever talked to Asher Sahar like that. Eli Schullman. The men had been fellow fighters and friends for years. They had started out in the Air Force then joined the Mossad. Then four years in a prison that didn’t officially exist. They had emptied many bottles together and each had saved the other’s life frequently but neither knew who had saved whom the most.
    Asher tapped his hacker on the shoulder and adjusted his bifocals. “Keep me posted on her moves.”
    Asher grabbed a plastic bottle of water—the water coming from the bathroom sink smelled of rust—and stepped out on the long railed breezeway that linked the motel rooms. The rooms were cheap and shabby but perfectly fine as a staging area.
    Eli Schullman had the next room over, and he had left his door ajar. It was identical to Asher’s room down to the cigarette burns on the furniture and odd stains in the aging, industrial carpet. Schullman sat on his bed watching CNN.
    Asher sat next to him on the bed and cracked open the seal on his water. “What is it?”
    CNN was covering a bombing. The setting was urban and definitely Middle Eastern. Smoke billowed from a storefront and the cars in front had their windows blown out. A ticker on the bottom of the screen read, AMMAN JORDAN.
    Schullman’s voice was a deep rumble. “It’s started.”
    Schullman was a giant of a man, the apparent size of a bison. Since his release from the prison, he’d gone back to shaving his skull daily. Asher was slim with pianist’s hands. He favored cardigans. Almost no one had ever heard him raise his voice. Schullman was loud and gruff. They made an odd combination.
    “They targeted a Jordanian hard-liner.” Schullman grumbled. “He had just sat down with two of his lieutenants. A small, shaped charge, likely under their very table, went off. Semtex, I imagine.”
    That was a lot more information than CNN currently had, but Schullman was an expert with explosives. He eyed the blast radius on the TV screen and derived the rest.
    Asher sighed. “Israel.”
    “Who else? When it’s confirmed, the Americans and Europe will go insane.”
    Asher looked around to see if Schullman’s room had a coffeemaker. It did not. “In two weeks, the Palestinians go to the General Assembly to petition for statehood. If they can prove this was an Israeli raid, the Palestinians will get a much warmer reception.”
    Schullman grimaced. “Our traditional allies are going to become very quiet. All because some vantz in Tel Aviv got a hard-on for a Jordanian.”
    “Yes.” Asher shoved his